


looking like a true survivor (feeling like a little kid)

by courfeyrac



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking the Cycle of Abuse, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Jack Kline's Birthday, M/M, Post-Canon, the build a bear fic !!! it's jack's fourth birthday and they go to build a bear workshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29856336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courfeyrac/pseuds/courfeyrac
Summary: "Jack’s a clever kid—has been ever since he was born, maybe even before that—but Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t figured out where they’re going yet. And Dean’s… Dean’s excited about it. He remembers planning surprises for Sammy when they were little—saving up quarters and sneaking off to the arcade the year he turned seven, or slipping a book Dean had seen Sammy admiring into his jacket before sprinting out of the store the year he turned twelve. There was only so much Dean could give him back then, hindered by lack of finances and transportation and a father who paid attention. Now, though, Dean’s got a wallet full of cash, a tank full of gas, and the freedom to give his kid the kind of birthday he deserves."Or, it's Jack's fourth birthday, and the kid wants to go to Build-A-Bear.
Relationships: Background Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Claire Novak & Dean Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 157





	looking like a true survivor (feeling like a little kid)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh... my god....
> 
> So. Back in September, I fell down the Supernatural rabbit hole after not watching the show for eight years, and now here I am, in March 2021, publishing a fic that's longer than my undergraduate thesis about Dean taking his family to Build-A-Bear Workshop for his kid's fourth birthday. Absolute insanity. I hope y'all like it, because I honestly had a great freakin' time writing it. 
> 
> Shoutout to all my friends from my discord server, who kept me motivated and let me bounce ideas off them and even contributed a number of details to this fic (whether they know it or not). Specifically, thank you to Tierney and [Rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evol_love/pseuds/evol_love), who came up with a couple of the bear/outfit assignments. And lastly, thank you to my [Cas' Top 13 Elton Traxx](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4kdwIspcmfW3Ip8eGImUKs?si=a6QDEuoTTvSnC8j3laNfYQ) playlist, which I listened to the entire time I worked on this fic. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm watching seasons 8-15 for the first time, and I'm only on season 11, so if any characterizations or details/facts are off, I apologize! (It's also why the Wayward Sisters aren't included... I've only met two of them! They're definitely part of the Family though.) Additionally, I don't really get into the finale fix-it stuff, but just know that they de-powered Chuck, got Cas out of the Empty (he's human now), and Jack gave up his God powers--either released them into the universe or made Billie the new God, whichever version you prefer. :) 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!!!!!!

Dean’s not sure how the kid found out about Build-A-Bear. He and Cas have been limiting Jack’s internet access ever since the unfortunate Twitch streaming incident, and it’s not like Dad ever took Dean or Sam to one of those places. Maybe Claire’s to blame. She’s always conspiring against Dean and Cas, manipulating Jack into asking questions neither of them knows how to answer, like why are babies made and did Dean choose his dad the way Jack chose Cas?

Besides, Jimmy seemed like the kind of guy who would’ve endured the chaos of a dozen eight-year-olds screaming about stuffing and costumes if it meant his little girl was happy. Whatever. It doesn’t matter who told Jack about Build-A-Bear, because this is the third time this week the kid has not-so-subtly dropped it into conversation.

They’re in the Dean Cave, Jack perched on one recliner and Dean and Cas stuffed into the other, watching one of those How to Train Your Dragon movies. Dean’s not sure which one of the three it is, but Jack _and_ Cas are pretty invested, and, okay, so it’s not the worst movie Dean’s ever watched, either.

“Did you know you can make your own Toothless at Build-A-Bear?” Jack asks during one of the scenes where the dragon’s soaring through the air. Dean’ll never admit it out loud, but it takes _significant_ effort for him to tear his gaze away from the television to look at his boy.

“Oh yeah, buddy?”

“Mhm,” Jack hums, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. Dean’s pretty sure the kid’s _vibrating_. “There’s even a special sound you can get, too.”

Before Dean can respond, something happens on the screen that makes both Cas and Jack gasp. Dean whips his head back around to look at the TV.

“What happened?” he asks, only to get aggressively shushed from both directions in return. “No, no,” he continues, “back it up!” Cas elbows him in the stomach, and Dean resigns himself to never finding out what it was he missed.

By the time the credits roll, all three of them are crying, and Dean is once again feeling grateful that Sammy and Eileen decided to spend a romantic weekend together at Lake Shawnee. He’d never live it down if his little brother saw him losing his marbles over a friggin’ cartoon dragon.

As Cas shuffles Jack off to get ready for bed, Dean cracks open another beer and googles Build-A-Bear. The website is pretty straightforward—it describes the process of building a bear and lists out the prices for birthday party packages. Dean clicks on the store locator and types in the zip code for the bunker. There’s a store in Omaha, about halfway between Lebanon and Sioux Falls.

Cas comes back a few minutes later, after Dean’s pretty much already made his decision. He pulls his baby down onto his lap, one arm secured snugly around his stomach, and hooks his chin over Cas’ shoulder. He silently holds his phone out for Cas to look at, which he does while taking a long pull from Dean’s beer bottle.

“I think that’s a lovely idea, Dean,” he says, turning his head to face Dean. His eyes go a little crossed as he stares down the slope of his own nose.

“Yeah?” Dean breathes.

Cas nods. “It’ll be nice to all be together for Jack’s birthday this year.”

Dean thinks so, too. He’s pretty sure Jack enjoyed himself last time, despite all the Mrs. Butters craziness and Cas off doing—hell, Dean doesn’t even remember what Cas was off doing. Nothing important, probably. Still. Jack loves when his whole family is in one place, and, apparently, he loves the idea of Build-A-Bear, too.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s been spacing out until Cas bumps his nose with his own, smiling in a way Dean knows _exactly_ how to interpret. He leans forward to capture Cas’ mouth in a kiss, reaching blindly to the side to drop his phone on the table next to the forgotten bottle of beer. With the kid asleep and Sam and Eileen two hundred miles away, they’ve got to take advantage of the alone time as thoroughly as they can.

And boy, do they ever.

* * *

The next morning, while Jack is outside helping Cas tend to the garden around back of the bunker, Dean calls Jody. She answers after the first few rings.

“Hey, Dean,” she says, warmth in her voice.

“Hey, Jody,” Dean answers.

“Everything good out there?” she asks. “Need help with a case?”

“No, nothing like that. More of a personal call, actually.”

“Alright,” Jody says, not unkindly. “What’s up?”

“Jack’s birthday is coming up,” Dean says. Jody hums in acknowledgment. “Cas and I are thinking of surprising him. Taking him to that Build-A-Bear place. You know it?”

Jody laughs, sharp, like it unexpectedly punched its way out of her chest.

“Oh, I am _very_ familiar,” she says, and Dean thinks about her late son, just a year or two older than Jack is now.

“Well there’s one at some mall in Omaha,” Dean says. “Think you and Claire can make it? Donna, too, if she’s free.”

“Of course. Text the details when you get them all worked out.”

“Will do,” Dean promises, and then he hangs up.

After that, it’s easy enough to open Sammy’s laptop and book a reservation. Jack’s birthday is on a Tuesday this year, so maybe they’ll luck out and the place won’t be too crowded. As he’s researching bakeries in the area, Jack comes bounding into the library, tracking mud _everywhere._

“Hey, hey,” Dean shouts, slamming the laptop shut. “Boots—off. Now.”

“What were you looking at?” Jack asks instead.

Shit.

“Uhhhh,” Dean fumbles. He looks to Cas for help, but Cas is just staring blankly at him, head tilted to the side in confusion, a perfect mirror of Jack. Christ. Dean will never get over how alike they look. Somehow, he manages to come up with: “Grown up stuff.”

Jack nods solemnly. “Porn.”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, before he registers what Jack actually said. “Wait—no. Not porn.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas chastises in his _I’m-disappointed-in-you_ voice.

“Not porn!” Dean insists.

“Whatever you say,” Jack says, and okay, alright, enough of that. Dean stands up and points at the mess Jack and Cas have _both_ made of the hardwood floor.

“Forget the laptop,” he says. “What the hell are you two doing getting mud all over my bunker? Huh?”

Finally, Jack and Cas do as they’ve been told and toe off their muddy gardening boots—Jack apologetic and Cas rolling his eyes the whole time. Jack dutifully picks up both pairs and carries them back to the front door, where they should’ve stayed in the first place. Once Jack’s out of the room, Cas steps into Dean’s personal space and squints at him.

“I wasn’t watching porn,” Dean insists. “I swear.”

“What were you doing, then?” Cas asks.

Dean makes sure Jack isn’t back in earshot and says, “Planning Jack’s party.”

Cas smiles at that, eyes sparkling, and he leans in to give Dean a quick kiss.

“Hey,” Dean says, a lightbulb going off in his head. “You wanna be in charge of his cake?”

Cas’ smile grows even wider, and the kiss he bestows upon Dean is decidedly _not_ quick.

“Oops!” Jack squeaks some indeterminate amount of time later. Dean and Cas separate just enough to see Jack spinning around in his socks and hightailing it outta the room. Dean laughs. Cas joins in.

Dean pulls him back over to the table, sitting down in his chair and scooting to the side to make room for Cas’ chair in front of the laptop. One of the bakeries he’d found had a cake design page on their website, where you could submit photographs to be printed onto the cake itself, as well as celebratory phrases to be written in frosting. Dean rotates the laptop so it’s easier for Cas to type, and he watches as Cas spends almost twenty minutes clicking through Google Images. Ultimately, he decides on a marble cake with white frosting, the top decorated with photos of that Archie kid from Riverdale, a frog wearing a little cowboy hat, and some chick named JoJo Siwa. In the message box, Cas types _Happy 4 th Birthday, Jack! _and selects the rainbow option for frosting color. Cas looks over at Dean for approval.

“Looks good, babe,” Dean tells him, before pulling out his credit card to complete the order.

Once it’s confirmed, Cas goes to find Jack, and Dean heads to the kitchen to get started on lunch. He decides on sandwiches—peanut butter and jelly for the other two and a BLT for himself—and cherry Kool-Aid, which he mixes up in a large glass pitcher. Balancing three plates, three glasses, and a bag of chips carefully atop a tray, Dean cautiously makes his way out of the kitchen and down the main hallway. Cas and Jack are on the floor in Jack’s room, working together on a puzzle. He sets the tray on Jack’s bed, passing everything out, and they eat in comfortable silence. After, Dean plugs his iPod into the speaker on Jack’s desk and settles into the beanbag in the corner of the room, crossing his arms over his chest and letting himself drift off to the soft sounds of Cas and Jack fitting puzzle pieces into place.

* * *

Let it be known that Dean Winchester is _not_ a morning person—never has been, even when his job as a hunter sometimes required him to be. His habit of sleeping in late has only gotten worse now that he shares a bed with Cas, who is somehow even less of a morning person than Dean. He’s a grumpy, shameless, blanket hog, and he is not above using sexual favors to keep his own personal space heater in between the sheets with him for as long as possible. Unfortunately for the both of them, their kid rises with the sun. Jody tries to tell Dean that young children tend do that, it’s perfectly normal, but Dean’s pretty sure it’s just leftover divine punishment from Chuck.

When Dean’s alarm goes off the morning of Jack’s birthday, Cas is the one who groans in frustration and flings an arm out to slam on the snooze button of Dean’s clock radio before burrowing even deeper into his pillow. A laugh bubbles out of Dean’s chest at the sight, and he runs his fingers down the side of Cas’ torso.

“Come on, angel,” he says softly. “You remember what day it is?”

Cas wrenches one eye open to glare at Dean.

“Of course,” he says. “I just don’t know what you need _me_ for.”

“Need you to keep the kid out of the kitchen.”

The cranky little wrinkle between Cas’ eyebrows doesn’t dissipate, so Dean cuddles in close and starts pressing open mouthed kisses along the line of Cas’ jaw. “Come on,” he repeats. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Cas’ sigh is long-suffering, as if making out with Dean is a chore and not something he himself instigates more mornings than not. Dean rolls onto his back and tugs at Cas until he gets the memo, lifting a leg and shifting his weight as he straddles Dean’s waist. He braces his forearms on either side of Dean’s head and leans down, slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean hums and slides a hand up Cas’ back, settling it in the center in-between his shoulder blades, palm heavy and fingers spread. The first time Dean had gotten Cas out of his shirt, he’d been surprised to find that the skin there was smooth, no scar leftover from Lucifer’s blade slicing through the flesh.

The first two years, Dean couldn’t really separate Jack’s birthday from the day Cas—you know. Even now, when Dean’s the happiest he’s ever been—his angel on top of him, his brother and his kid down the hall, the world free of a wrathful, manipulative god—he can’t help but think of that night by the lake and the bright white flash of Cas’ grace. Can’t help but think of how close he came to not having any of this. Like he knows the track Dean’s mind is barreling down, Cas makes a noise and presses even closer, finding Dean’s other hand and tangling their fingers together. Overwhelmed, Dean breaks the kiss and leans back just enough to look into Cas’ eyes. He’s never been good at verbalizing his feelings, but it feels like if he doesn’t get this out, he’s going to explode.

“I love you,” he tells Cas, squeezing his hand tight.

“I know,” Cas answers, with a wide gummy smile and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Dean groans loudly, rolling his eyes, and flipping them over so he’s the one on top.

“Showing you Star Wars was a mistake,” he grumbles, even as he leans back down to kiss Cas again.

Cas is just getting a hand down Dean’s flannel pajama pants when the alarm blares again, reminding Dean what day it is and how little time he has left to whip up the perfect birthday breakfast. Cas whines when Dean pulls away, chasing his mouth, and Dean almost says _fuck it, the kid loves pop-tarts, who says he needs a whole pancake spread, anyway?_ Almost.

“Raincheck,” he promises, as he climbs out of bed and slips into his robe. He pulls it closed enough to hide the marks Cas has left on his skin, knowing Sammy’s annoying little brother senses will home in on them immediately if left uncovered.

Dean can hear the shower running as he passes the bathroom on the way to the kitchen, which means Sam has been up long enough to leave for and return from one of his morning jogs. Disgusting. Dean can’t believe he’s related to that freak, honestly.

The first thing Dean does once he flicks the kitchen lights on is start the coffee maker. He turns the stove on and gathers all the necessary pans and ingredients while he waits for it to heat up. The pancake mix is nothing special—just the cheap, off-brand box from the grocery store—and it doesn’t take more than a minute or two to stir in the bowl. He pours a few circles of batter onto the griddle and starts in on the eggs. Jack likes them scrambled, which is easy enough. Dean flips the pancakes over and fetches two mugs from the cabinet, filling them both almost to the brim with hot coffee—one black and the other with a stupid amount of cream and exactly one and a half sugar cubes. Then he moves the finished pancakes onto a platter, pours another round onto the griddle, and heads back to his bedroom, cream-and-sugar-monstrosity in hand.

He finds Cas still stretched out in bed, looking far less frustrated than when Dean left him. He sits up in preparation for his caffeine, holding both hands out impatiently. Biting down on a smile, Dean passes him his coffee mug and runs a quick hand through Cas’ hair.

“Just a couple more minutes,” Dean informs him. “Go wake the kid up.”

Cas makes a noise of affirmation while gulping down his coffee, eyes closed in bliss. Dean turns away to return to the kitchen, but Cas tugs on the waist tie of Dean’s robe and reels him back in. Dean has to slam a hand against the wall so that he doesn’t lose his balance and topple over. Cas doesn’t flinch—he just looks Dean directly in the eyes and says, clear as day, “I love you, too.”

Dean gives in and tackles Cas into a bruising kiss, just like he’s sure Cas expected him to, and he doesn’t relent until he starts to smell something burning.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouts, tearing himself away from Cas and rushing into the kitchen as fast as he can in his slippers. The undersides of the pancakes are charred, but they’re not totally unsalvageable, so Dean just resigns himself to drenching them in syrup and eating them himself. He gets a fresh batch going on the griddle and starts up frying the bacon, too. Luckily, the rest of the preparation goes on without a hitch, and ten minutes later he’s plating everything up: scrambled eggs in a big bowl, pancakes on a platter, and bacon stacked between paper towels on another platter. He leaves them on the counter for everyone else to dig into family buffet style. For Jack’s plate, he arranges a smiley face—two pancakes for eyes, the longest strip of bacon bent in the shape of a smile, and hair made up of scrambled eggs—and sets it up on the table, sticking two birthday candles in each of the pancakes at the last minute.

Dean has just lit the candles when Jack wanders into the kitchen, Cas and Sam right behind him.

“Happy birthday, kid,” Dean says, spreading his arms wide. Cas and Sam echo the sentiment, all three of them watching attentively as Jack examines the scene before him. Jack takes a second to process, and then a brilliant smile erupts across his face, so full of surprise and joy that Dean feels something clench tightly in his own chest.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Come on, aren’t you gunna blow out the candles?” and Jack rushes forward to do just that. “Don’t forget to make a wish,” Dean reminds him. Jack squeezes his eyes shut and takes a few moments to deliberate, before blowing both out in one breath.

“Do you want to know what I wished for?” Jack asks.

“Of course,” Cas answers.

Dean splutters, raising his voice and shouting over whatever Jack opens his mouth to say.

“That’s bad luck, buddy,” Sam says. “If you tell someone your wish, it won’t come true.”

Cas tilts his head in confusion, but Jack absorbs this new information gravely and shuts his mouth.

“Come on,” Dean says, clapping his hands together. “Get eating. Busy day today.”

Jack whips his head around to look up at Cas, his eyes wide, and Cas informs him, “It’s a surprise.” Dean smiles at Cas’ serious tone and goes to fill up a plate with a massive heaping of eggs and bacon, as well as his burnt pancakes. Sam slaps him on the shoulder as he passes by.

“Looks good,” he tells Dean.

“Damn straight,” Dean says, fixing a second plate for Cas, who hasn’t moved from his place next to Jack. Just as they all sit down and start to dig in, Dean hears the unmistakable sound of the bunker’s front door opening. For a moment, his adrenaline spikes at the thought of something or someone breaking in, before Sam scoots his chair back and stands up.

“That’ll be Eileen,” Sam announces, heading out to meet her. Cas, who must’ve noticed Dean’s intake of breath, of course he did, rests a comforting hand on Dean’s thigh, and continues eating one-handed.

Sam and Eileen appear in the doorway a minute later, Eileen smiling big and signing _happy birthday_ to Jack, who answers her with a signed _thank you._

Dean waits for Eileen to make eye contact and then says, “Help yourself. We’re out of here in twenty.”

Eileen goes straight for the bacon, and Dean laughs. God, he knew he liked her.

Dean stuffs the last few bites of breakfast into his mouth, puffing his cheeks out like a chipmunk, earning him a groan from Sam, a chuckle from Jack and Eileen, and a fond eyeroll and smile combination from Cas—exactly the reactions he was hoping for. He gets up from the table and deposits his plate and silverware in the sink. Normally, Dean hates leaving dirty dishes, but he figures today can be an exception to his, as Sam likes to call it, over the top neat freak psycho dirty dish dictatorship. He stops by his room on the way to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and some clean clothes.

As he’s rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, head tilted back into the hot water spray, the shower curtain slides open, its metal hooks squealing against the rod. Dean opens his eyes to find Cas climbing inside the tub alongside him. He grins, feeling like the cat that got the canary. Finally—a chance to finish what they started this morning. He grabs Cas around the waist, pulling him closer and taking a step or two backwards at the same time so that they both wind up underneath the water.

“Hey, angel,” Dean says softly. “Come here often?”

Cas smiles. “Sometimes.”

Dean leans in close and Cas meets him in the middle for a kiss. God. Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of this. He hadn’t even realized how desperately he’d wanted it all these years until he’d finally gotten a taste. Sure, he’d known how he’d _felt_ about Cas _,_ but you go long enough without kissing a guy, you wind up getting used to it.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to get worked up—Cas not too far behind him—and they both lose track of time. Hell, Dean even forgets they’ve got a rigid schedule to keep to until he hears Sammy pounding on the door and yelling, “Hey, what happened to twenty minutes?”

Dean laughs, the sound mostly muffled by Cas’ mouth. “Yeah, babe,” he says, barely audible. “What do you say we get this show on the road?”

Cas, of course, knows a challenge when he hears one and pushes Dean against the shower wall, a determined look in his eye.

After, Dean dries off and passes his towel to Cas, who has a tendency to forget to come prepared with his own. Dean pulls on his boxers and jeans, admiring the view as Cas runs the towel through his hair and down his body before wrapping it semi-securely around his waist so as not to scar the rest of their family on his trek back to his bedroom. He gives Dean another kiss before he goes, and it’s a testament to how much Dean loves their son that he pulls back before they get carried away again. Once Cas is gone, Dean brushes his teeth, puts on some deodorant, and pulls his henley over his head. He stops by his own room to lace up his boots and unplug his phone from the charger. He’s got emails from Build-A-Bear and the bakery, confirming both the party and the cake. They should be just about good to go.

Dean bursts into the library, which he finds empty save for Eileen. She notices him in her periphery and looks up, an amused smile on her face. _Have fun?_ she signs, which is a phrase in ASL Dean only knows because she directs it at him and Cas so often.

 _Loads,_ he answers, with an over-the-top wink that makes her laugh.

“Where the hell is everyone?” he asks in English, and she just shrugs in response. Dammit. Dean goes back down the main hallway and peeks into Jack’s room. He seems to be dressed, at least, but he’s standing by his desk with his backpack, looking confused.

“You ready, kid?” Dean asks.

“What should I bring?” Jack counters.

“You trying to trick me into spoiling the surprise?”

“No!” Jack insists, looking horrified at the prospect alone. “I just—don’t know what to pack.”

“Something for the car,” Dean tells him. “We’ll be driving for a few hours. And a jacket.”

Jack nods and opens the top drawer of his desk, where Dean knows he keeps some of his favorite books. Dean exits and is about to knock on Sammy’s door when something occurs to him. He takes a few steps back and smacks the doorframe to get Jack’s attention.

“Why don’t you pick out one of your tapes,” Dean instructs, watching Jack’s eyes go wide.

“I can play _my_ music?” he asks, in awe.

“Well,” Dean says, “If not your birthday, then when?”

“Thanks, Dean!”

For a split second, Dean regrets it, thinking of all the insane mixes Jack has put together over the past couple of months after Dean showed him how. Dean would say he inherited his taste in music from his father, but even Cas doesn’t listen to stuff _that_ bad. What the hell, though. It’s the kid’s birthday. Dean can suck it up for a few hours. Or, well. One play-through, at least. He’s only human, after all.

Dean swings back around to Sammy’s room and knocks once before barging in. Sam splutters in annoyance, but Dean ignores him.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says. “Got places to be, Sammy.”

“I wasn’t the one who spent forty minutes in the shower, _Dean,”_ Sam counters, sending Dean one of his most annoyed looks.

“It wasn’t forty minutes,” Dean argues out of habit, but now that he thinks about it, he’s really not sure. Whatever. Sam can suck it. He lowers his voice and asks, “You put all the presents in the car?”

Sam nods. “Eileen’s, too.”

“Great,” Dean says, reaching out to slap Sam on the shoulder. “Thanks, dude.”

“We ready to go?” Sam asks.

“You go start Baby,” Dean says, handing Sam the keys. “I gotta check on Cas.”

Sam nods and makes his way to the garage, presumably stopping to pick up Jack and Eileen on his way. Dean continues down the hall until he reaches Cas’ room. The door is cracked, and Dean pushes it open to find Cas sitting on the edge of his bed, bent over at the waist and tying his shoes. Truthfully, Cas doesn’t spend a lot of time in his bedroom. He sleeps with Dean every night—has since he got back from the Empty—and during the day he’s usually gardening with Jack or reading in silent companionship with Sam or watching movies in the Dean Cave with, you know, Dean. He keeps his clothes in the closet and some of his accumulated possessions on the desk, but Dean doesn’t see why he can’t clear some hanger space and a drawer or two to make space in his own room. And besides, his room has that cool ledge above the bed—the perfect place for a few of Cas’ smaller potted plants and the various rocks Jack has collected and carefully placed into Cas’ palm at the end of an adventure. Dean doesn’t see why they don’t make it official and just—move in together. Maybe he’ll bring it up when they get back this evening. For now…

“You ready, angel?” Dean asks.

Cas looks up and smiles, the way he always does when Dean calls him that. It’s taken a few months, but Dean thinks Cas has finally caught the hang of pet names—enough to recognize them, that is. He still hasn’t quite grasped the skill of using them himself, but what the hell. Dean _likes_ being called sugarbee and tastycakes. Sue him!

Dean holds out a hand, and Cas takes it, pulling it up to his lips and placing a kiss on Dean’s knuckles. Dean feels heat flood his cheeks. He’s getting better when it comes to shameless expressions of affection like that, but it still takes him by surprise sometimes. Cas had his own shit to deal with, of course, but he didn’t grow up in a world that taught him to be ashamed of who he loves, like Dean did. A few months ago, Dean would’ve torn his hand away right after, but now he keeps it entwined with Cas’ as they make their way to the garage.

Baby’s engine is rumbling, and as they get closer, Dean can see Sam, Eileen, and Jack have crammed themselves into the back seat, leaving the front free for Dean and Cas. Dean laughs, loud and unabashed, as he opens the driver’s side door. He loses it completely when he glances in the rearview mirror and sees Sam’s legs uncomfortably bunched up practically to his chest and his shoulders pulled in tight so that Eileen and Jack have room on either side of him.

“Here you go, Dean,” Jack says, leaning forward to hand Dean a tape. Jack has titled it _Jack’s Jazzy Jamz_ and decorated the front with doodles of colorful flowers and frogs. Dean slides the tape into the deck and is immediately bombarded with the sound of trumpets and synthesizers.

“Hey, uh,” Dean starts, licking his lips and trying to keep his voice neutral. “How many songs you got on this one, bud?”

“Twenty-seven,” Jack answers.

“Oh,” Dean says, unable to hold back his grimace. “Good choice.”

Jack hums in contentment and flips the page of his activity book. Dean pulls out of the garage and uses the button to shut it behind them. Town isn’t too busy as they drive through, but Dean waves at Marta from the post office as they pass her on her route and Christopher from the community center, too. Once they merge onto the highway, Dean grips the wheel with his left hand and lightly rests his right on Cas’ thigh. 

The drive goes smoothly—no traffic; only one stop for gas, snacks, and a bathroom break; and Jack is happy to let Dean put on _Physical Graffiti_ when Jack’s mix finishes. As they get closer to the Oak View Mall in Omaha, Cas pulls up Google maps on his phone and gives Dean soft-spoken directions from the passenger seat.

Jack’s a clever kid—has been ever since he was born, maybe even before that—but Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t figured out where they’re going yet. And Dean’s… Dean’s _excited_ about it. He remembers planning surprises for Sammy when they were little—saving up quarters and sneaking off to the arcade the year he turned seven, or slipping a book Dean had seen Sammy admiring into his jacket before sprinting out of the store the year he turned twelve. There was only so much Dean could give him back then, hindered by lack of finances and transportation and a father who paid attention. Now, though, Dean’s got a wallet full of cash, a tank full of gas, and the freedom to give his kid the kind of birthday he deserves.

Dean turns into the parking lot and pulls into an empty spot near the back, away from most of the other cars. Eileen fell asleep against the window about halfway through the drive, and Dean sees Sam gently shake her awake out of the corner of his eye.

“Are we here?” Jack asks, his brows furrowed in confusion. He looks exactly like his father, and Dean smiles at the thought.

“You bet,” he says, climbing out of the car and opening Jack’s door for him. He stumbles out less gracefully, not as used as the rest of them to sitting in a car for hours on end. Cas comes around from the other side and helps Jack with his backpack, zipping it up all the way once it’s over both of Jack’s shoulders. Jack grips the straps and scrutinizes the mall. Luckily, there’s not a sign advertising Build-A-Bear on this side of the building.

The five of them make their way inside, and Cas distracts Jack while Sam and Eileen go check out the large store directory. Dean unlocks his phone and finds an unread text from Jody, sent about ten minutes previous: _We are in position! Operation birthday surprise is a go!_ Dean snorts.

“Straight and then turn right,” Sam whispers when he returns to Dean’s side. “There’s an escalator at the end of that wing that should take us right up to the front of the store.”

“Fantastic,” Dean says. He calls out to Cas and Jack: “Come on, this way, you two. Chop-chop!”

They follow Sam’s route, passing a handful of elderly couples powerwalking in matching tracksuits and young mothers pushing strollers with sleeping babies inside. They find the escalator, and Dean gets on first, the others a few steps behind. As he’s carried closer to the second level, Dean spots Jody, Donna, and Claire lingering just to the right of the store. Donna sees him first and waves in enthusiastic excitement. Dean steps off the escalator and takes a few strides forward, turning around so he can see the moment Jack figures it all out.

Jack’s mid-conversation with Cas, too caught up in whatever he’s telling his father about to notice where they are, and it takes Cas nudging him gently with an elbow for him to finally look away. Dean watches as Jack’s eyes travel from the Build-A-Bear sign to the girls to Dean and back to Cas.

“No friggin’ way,” Jack exclaims, smile wider than Dean thinks he’s ever seen it. Nobody even bothers to point out his age-inappropriate language.

Claire walks up to him and wraps an arm snugly around Jack’s neck in an embrace Dean is only about sixty percent sure isn’t going to end in a headlock and a wet willy.

“Happy birthday, kid,” she says, letting him go, only to immediately be tugged into a bear hug. She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t actually mind it. Dean would know.

Jody and Donna take turns hugging him next, wishing him a happy birthday and asking if he was surprised. Jack nods vigorously and tells them all about his surprise breakfast, too. Dean catches sight of Cas watching Jack talk to the girls—Cas has got this awestruck smile on his face, half euphoric, half disbelieving, like he can’t completely comprehend the kid in front of him. Dean thinks he knows the feeling.

“Hey,” Dean shouts, gathering everyone’s attention. “We gunna stand out here all day or are we going to go build some bears?”

Jack is the only one who actually responds—“Bears!”—but everyone makes their way inside the store, where an employee is waiting to greet them. She looks somewhat taken aback, which Dean can’t really blame her for. For all that Jack is four years old, he still looks like he’s about to pack up and move away to college. Dean comes to stand behind Jack, placing his hands on his shoulders and presenting him to the girl.

“We’re here for Jack’s birthday party,” Dean informs her. “And this here is the birthday boy.”

“Happy birthday, Jack,” she says. “My name is Emily, and I’ll be the Party Leader for you guys today. If you’ll follow me…”

Emily leads them towards the back of the store, where she proceeds to explain how the day is going to go. Dean booked the most expensive party package, so they’ve got free reign when it comes to bear choice—no option is off limits, apparently. They each get to choose a bear, an optional sound effect, and an outfit. One whole wall of the store is filled with all the potential bears to choose from, and Dean is shocked at how many options there actually are. Some of them seem to be normal teddy bears, whereas others are famous cartoon characters, like the ones from the Lion King. Dean spots the How to Train Your Dragon one Jack mentioned. It _does_ look pretty cool.

“And then you’ll be ready to take your furry friends home!” Emily says, and Dean realizes he spaced out throughout her entire speech. Oh well. He can just follow Cas around the whole time— _he_ probably paid perfect attention.

Their group disperses along the selection wall, pointing at various displays and picking up the unstuffed bears from the bins below. Dean figures a monkey is as good a choice as any, so he grabs one of the freaky little skins and searches out Cas. He’s further down the stuffed animal wall, apparently debating between a sea turtle and a plain, light-colored teddy bear. Dean slides up next to him, one hand in his monkey skin like it’s a puppet.

“Meesa like the turtle,” Dean says, using his best Jar Jar Binks impression.

Cas looks up, gaze flitting between Dean’s face and his monkey. He’s got that eyebrow wrinkle again, his mouth turned down in a confused frown.

“It’s not a puppet, Dean,” Cas chastises him. “You’re supposed to stuff it.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah, you’d know all about stuffing, wouldn’t you?” he teases.

Cas glares and shoves him away, but Dean can see his lips twitching in an attempt to hide his amusement. He drops the bear back in its bin and hangs onto the sea turtle, too, so Dean knows it’s all an act. They both move along and wind up next to Jack, who is staring very intently up at the display for a hot pink, fuzzy…. something.

“Oh, man,” Dean says. “What even _is_ that thing?

“A sloth,” Jack and Cas both answer at the same time.

“I think that’s a great choice, Jack,” Cas assures him.

“Yeah?” Jack asks, looking up at _Dean_ for confirmation. Oh boy…

“For sure,” Dean says. “It’s very… cool.”

Jack smiles and pulls one out of the bin. Dean lets out a breath of relief. Cas is a natural when it comes to making Jack feel good about himself and his decisions, and it makes Dean kinda jealous. Half the time he feels like he’s maneuvering through a minefield, one wrong step away from shattering the kid’s self-esteem like Dean’s own dad sometimes did. Hell, like Dean himself has done a half-dozen times already.

Ahead of them, Sam and Eileen are already at the “stuff me” station. Dean snorts. Emily is leading them through some sort of ritual involving a small cloth heart. They shake it, slap it, and rub it all over their respective bears—Snoopy and a bunny rabbit, it seems.

“Close your eyes and make a special wish,” Emily instructs them, and Dean sees Sam make his patented side-eye-judgey-face instead of doing as he’s told. Jack tugs on Sam’s sleeve.

“You have to make a wish,” he says gravely.

“Oh,” Sam says, startled. “Yeah, buddy. I did.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jack insists. “You have to make a real one.” Jack leans in close and whispers, “Believe me. I’ll know.”

Dean can’t help it—he bursts into laughter. Sam glares at him before closing his eyes and apparently making a real wish, if Jack’s silence and pleased expression are anything to go by. After Emily closes up their bears, she has Sam and Eileen give them a hug test, to make sure they’re stuffed enough. Eileen hugs her bunny immediately, and Sam only pauses a moment, glancing at Jack, before doing the same. Emily sends Sam and Eileen on their way, and then it’s Jack’s turn.

Emily has him stand on the operating pedal while she stuffs his hot pink sloth, asking him questions like what’s his favorite animal (axolotl), his favorite holiday (Valentine’s Day), and how old he’s turning today (four). That last answer throws her off enough that some stuffing escapes the tube and floats through the air. Cas reaches out his hands to try and catch some, and Dean just gives her one of his prize-winning grins instead of trying to explain—he wouldn’t even know where to begin. Looking a little dazed, she finishes up with Jack’s sloth and then walks Jack through the heart ceremony, adding a few extra steps for him, since he’s much more into the whole thing than Sam had been. After that, it’s Dean’s turn.

“Would you like to add a sound effect?” Emily asks.

“Huh?”

“You can put a sound effect in your bear,” Emily explains, pointing at a fixture behind Dean. “There’s a heartbeat, and some songs from kids’ movies. You can also record your own if you want.”

“Huh,” Dean repeats, albeit this time less confused and more contemplative. He looks over the options and grabs one of the do-it-yourself buttons, holding it out to Cas. “You wanna say something, angel?”

Cas makes a little noise, like he hadn’t expected Dean to ask, but he’s not totally opposed to the idea either. He stares at the button for a moment, contemplating, and then leans in close. Dean presses the record switch just in time for Cas to say, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean bursts into laughter. “Really?” he asks. “That’s what you come up with?”

“What else would I say?” Cas asks, tilting his head, and, hand to God, Dean can’t tell if he’s being deliberately fucked with or not. Christ, he loves this guy.

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” he admits, snorting, as he slips the button into his monkey and passes him to Emily. She instructs him to press down the operating pedal with his foot, and Dean watches as she methodically moves the monkey around so that stuffing makes its way into every nook and cranny.

“So,” Dean says. “You like working here?”

“Sorry, what?” she asks.

Dean repeats himself, a little louder.

“It’s alright,” she says. “Nice place to work part-time while I’m in school.”

Dean nods, not really sure what else to say. He never went to college, obviously, or had a part-time job. He’d wanted to get one when he was living at Sonny’s, so used to being expected to contribute to the “household” income, but Sonny always told him that his job was school and wrestling. His job was to settle in. It doesn’t matter, anyway—Emily shuts the machine off and pulls his monkey away from the tube before he has a chance to open his mouth. Dean takes his foot off the pedal, and Emily hands him one of the small, red, felt hearts.

“You ready for the heart ceremony?” she asks, faux-retail-enthusiasm dripping out of her voice.

Dean notices Sam, Eileen, and Jack watching him from the next station.

“Hell yeah,” he answers.

“Start by shaking your heart to wake it up,” she instructs, and Dean complies. “Slap it to give it a heartbeat… rub it on your furry friend’s chest so they’re full of love… on their back so they always have yours… your head so they’re as smart as you are… and your toes so they’re totally awesome, just like you. Alright, now close your eyes and make a special wish.”

Dean closes his eyes and considers his options. He doesn’t doubt that Jack’ll know if his wish is bullshit, but, honestly, he’s not really sure what to wish for. He’s got just about everything he could ever hope for nowadays—Cas, his family, his freedom. What else is there?

He decides to wish for the rest of the day’s celebrations to go exactly as planned—better, even. It’s not a deep, dark desire or anything, but it’s true.

Dean opens his eyes, and Emily tells Dean to kiss the heart before placing it in his monkey’s back. Wordlessly, Dean holds the heart out in front of Cas, who kisses it oh-so-gently. Dean smiles, and Cas mirrors him.

“You are awesome, you are loved,” Emily says, interrupting their eye contact. “Now give your furry friend a hug.”

Dean does, and what do you know? The little guy’s perfectly stuffed.

“Great,” Emily says. “You can go give him a bath to fluff him up now.”

She shoos him along down the line, and Dean would really prefer to stick with Cas, but Cas and Emily have already started the stuffing process for Cas’ turtle. Damn. Dean wanders over to the “fluff me” station, which seems to be a large plastic table in the shape of a clawfoot bathtub. Dean has _no idea_ what he’s supposed to do with it. Emily probably explained it while he was zoning out earlier, which. Figures. He leans against the ledge and decides to just wait for Cas to join him.

He watches Cas and Emily converse while she operates the machine, and for a moment Dean feels proud of how sociable Cas has become lately. He’s still pretty awkward, but he’s far better at holding a conversation with strangers than he used to be. Cas completes the heart ceremony, but he stays by Emily’s side throughout Claire’s turn, and after, too. Huh.

“How’s it hanging, old man?” Claire asks once she arrives at the bathtub, two bears in hand—Cas’ turtle and what looks to be a skunk.

“You know,” Dean says, frowning. “I’m really not that old.”

“Yeah, sure,” Claire scoffs. “I’ve seen your EMF meter. That thing’s fucking _ancient.”_

Dean makes a face at her, and she makes an even uglier one back at him.

“Real mature,” he says, crossing his arms as Claire sets the turtle and skunk on the table beneath a fake showerhead.

“Takes one to know one,” she sing-songs, and it’s at that point that he gives up.

Claire picks up a small square-shaped brush from the side of the bathtub table and begins brushing the fur of her skunk, more tenderly than Dean would have expected.

“You ever come here?” he finds himself asking.

“Yeah,” she says, not looking up from her task. “There was one in Peoria, like an hour away. Had my birthday there when I was like five or six? I don’t know. I don’t really remember it. We had a bunch of pictures though.”

Her voice sounds… well, let’s just say Dean knows what it sounds like when someone’s trying to seem a lot less emotional than they actually are—the deliberately calm tone, the low volume. Claire glances at him for a moment. Dean’s not sure what his face looks like, but whatever Claire sees inspires her to continue.

“My mom kept all these photo albums in the living room,” she tells him. “She was obsessed with taking pictures of like, everything. There were so many pictures of me when I was little just, like… eating or taking a bath or whatever. It was so ridiculous.”

Dean snorts, and Claire flashes a smile at him. “I know right,” she says. She goes back to brushing, this time picking up Cas’ turtle. “I used to sit on the floor in front of the TV and just flip through all the albums over and over. I don’t know why I liked them so much.”

“You still have them?” Dean asks, even though he probably knows the answer.

Claire shakes her head, raking the brush over the turtle a little more aggressively. “My mom didn’t pack a whole lot for me when she abandoned me at my grandma’s. I went back to our old house after grandma died, but I guess the bank took it back or something. I don’t know what they did with all our stuff.”

“I know how you feel,” Dean confesses, and in his periphery, he sees her head whip up to face him. He reaches around her for the second paddle brush and turns so they’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder. “Most of our stuff from when I was little burned up in the fire.”

“You guys couldn’t save _anything?”_

“Well, I was a little busy carrying my six-month-old baby brother out of a flaming inferno” he says, wryly. “Didn’t have a chance to grab any of my favorite toys.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean, asshole.”

“My dad, uh,” Dean says as he runs the brush over the top of his monkey’s head. It’s a surprisingly soothing little motion. “I guess he grabbed some pictures of my mom on his way out, or already had them in his wallet, or something. I’m not sure which. Either way, I found them in his journal when he left it for me back in, what? 2005, I think.”

“He never showed them to you?” Claire asks.

Dean’s not sure how much Claire knows about John—or Mary, even. And he’s not—he’s not going to spill his innermost feelings and secrets to her in the middle of a fucking Build-A-Bear workshop, but he can make her feel a little less alone in this. Or he can try to, at least.

“My dad didn’t,” Dean starts, and then he doesn’t quite know how to finish that sentence. He tries again. “Mom was a touchy subject, growing up.”

“Jimmy was, too,” Claire admits, voice quiet. “She used to get so mad when I brought him up that first year he was missing.”

Dean remembers meeting Claire back then—vaguely. She wasn’t as angry, that’s for sure. He can imagine her lying awake, wondering where her dad was—if he was ever coming back. Hell, he can relate.

“Forgot what my mom looked like ‘till I was like, twenty-six,” he hears himself say before he’s even finished thinking it.

“Are you serious?”

“I mean, I remembered the general things about her. Her hair. The color of her eyes. But I forgot all the details until I found those photos.”

“Jesus,” Claire breathes.

The night Dean stumbled upon them in his dad’s journal, he felt like he had been sucker punched in the solar plexus. He felt an actual, literal, physical pain in his chest. Sam had been sleeping in the other bed—fitfully, probably, like most nights that year—and Dean couldn’t stay in the motel room. He had to scream, or punch something—maybe even both, so he’d staggered out to the car in his flannel pajama pants and bare feet, despite the chill in the air. They’d been somewhere in the Southwest, and Dean found himself driving on autopilot out into the desert. He parked the car on the side of the road and just—sagged. Collapsed against the steering wheel like he was a puppet and someone had cut his strings. He pulled Dad’s journal into his lap, thumbing it to the page Mom’s photo was paperclipped to. Dean stared at it for hours. He’s not even sure he blinked. It wasn’t until the sun started peeking past the horizon that he broke out of the spell and remembered that Dad was missing and Sam was grieving. They didn’t have time for him to mourn his long-dead mother, and they certainly didn’t have time for him to tenderly trace a finger across her wide smile over and over and over. So, he drove back to the motel and pretended to be asleep when Sam jerked up out of a nightmare forty-five minutes later.

But Dean can’t—he can’t just _say_ that, so he nods, commiserating with Claire about how fucked up the whole situation is. “You can say that again.”

“I’m,” Claire says, heaving a shaky breath, “ _terrified_ I’m going to forget what my mom looked like, too.”

Dean turns to look at her and finds she’s already looking up at him, eyes glassy and bottom lip wobbling. He’s about to open his mouth to say something, anything, he has no idea what exactly, just something to keep Claire from looking as lost and lonely as she does right now, when they’re interrupted by Jody and Donna.

“You guys having fun?” Jody asks, upbeat and smiling wide.

Claire avoids eye contact with all three of them, and subtly runs a finger under both of her eyes to catch the unshed tears. Dean notices it smudges her eye makeup.

“So much fun,” Claire responds, nowhere near believable. “I’m going to go give Castiel his turtle.”

She rushes away, and Dean sees she does actually make her way over to Cas. He’s not totally convinced she isn’t going to bolt right after, but maybe Cas will be able to catch her if she does.

“Everything okay?” Jody asks, and when Dean turns to face her, she’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head. Hell, he can’t blame her. They’re in a friggin’ Build-A-Bear—no one should be crying right now.

“Yeah,” Dean says, rubbing his hand across his mouth. Even he hears how unconvincing he sounds. “Yeah, being here just...” Dean waves his other hand around, gesturing at the whole place. “I guess Jimmy and Amelia brought her here one time.”

Jody and Donna both make sympathetic noises, and, luckily, neither of them asks for more information. Dean decides to change the subject, and he doesn’t care how unsubtle it is.

“What bears you two pick out?”

“This here is Panda Donna,” Donna announces, presenting, you know, a panda.

“I went with the Clydesdale,” Jody says, holding up her stuffed horse. “And she is _not_ me if I were a horse.”

Jody glares at Donna as she says it, and Dean chuckles.

“I’m serious,” Jody continues, turning her glare towards Dean now. “I better not hear a single one of you call this stuffed horse Jody.”

Dean holds both hands up in surrender, while Donna descends into undignified giggles. Jody gestures to the paddle brush Dean still has clutched in his grip.

“You done with that?” she asks.

Dean looks down at his monkey. Honestly, he’s not sure if it’s any fluffier than it was beforehand, but it’s not like he cares how fluffy the damn thing is, anyway. He tosses the brush, and Jody catches it.

“Have at it,” he tells her as he abandons the station.

Cas approaches him a moment after, holding his sea turtle gently against his stomach. He looks—perturbed.

“Is Claire okay?” he asks, gazing somewhere over Dean’s shoulder. Dean follows his eyeline and finds Claire next to Jack, the two of them considering the outfit options for their bears.

“Yeah,” Dean says, turning back to Cas, and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he finds himself throwing both arms around Cas’ shoulders and collapsing into a hug. Cas’ own arms come up around Dean’s waist automatically—not a moment of hesitation, _god—_ and his palm feels warm against Dean’s lower back.

“Are _you_ okay?” Cas asks this time.

“Yeah,” Dean repeats, quieter. It’s kind of insane how much better Dean can feel after a hug from Cas. They stand there, embracing, until Dean hears Sam start wolf-whistling from the other side of the store. Dean flips him off as he pulls away. Once they’re face-to-face again, Cas tilts his head, his eyes roving all over Dean’s features. Dean’s not sure what he’s looking for—or what he finds, either. Whatever it is, it must reassure Cas that Dean’s not about to have a complete mental break in the next five minutes. He gazes down at his turtle.

“This stuffed animal doesn’t make much sense,” Cas says.

“No?”

“No,” Cas confirms, shaking his head. “Their shells aren’t removable. I don’t know why the stuffed shell isn’t attached to the stuffed turtle’s back.”

“Can’t dress him if it’s like that,” Dean figures.

Cas looks up at Dean, perplexed. “What would I dress a sea turtle in, Dean?”

“That’s the beauty of this place,” Dean says, walking Cas over to where most of the others are gathered by the outfit wall. “You can dress him in anything you want, babe.”

Dean gestures to the rest of the group’s bears: Sam’s Snoopy in a pilot costume; Eileen’s bunny in scrubs and a medical mask; and Claire’s skunk in, worrisomely, a devil costume—horns, tail, pitchfork, the whole nine yards.

“Ooh! Roller-skates!” Jody exclaims from behind them, perfectly timed. She pushes past Dean to grab a pair off the fixture to his left, immediately sliding them on to all four of her stuffed Clydesdale’s hooves. Donna, at her side, has selected a police officer’s uniform, unsurprisingly.

Dean smiles and holds his palms out as if to say _see?_ Cas hums and goes off to explore his options. Dean’s not left alone for long. Jack approaches him, brandishing his hot pink sloth, newly dressed in a cowboy costume.

“Hey-ey,” Dean says, happy laughter bubbling out of his chest. “I like the way you think, kid.”

Jack beams. “Do you want to match?”

“Nah,” Dean says, even though a monkey cowboy sure is tempting. “Don’t wanna steal your thunder. I bet we can find something just as cool.”

“You betcha!” Jack agrees, and Dean makes a mental note to keep him away from Donna and her ridiculous accent for the rest of the afternoon.

He follows Jack to the main wall, where Jack points out the sports uniforms and occupational stuff, like firefighter and naval officer. Those seem pretty boring to Dean, so they move down the line. The superhero costumes are kinda cool, and Jack and Dean laugh for what feels like twenty minutes at an absurd Empire State Building costume they find in the clearance section. Dean’s starting to think he might just take his monkey home commando, when out of the corner of his eye he spots—

“No friggin’ way,” he cheers as he rushes to the far corner and tugs a Han Solo costume off the hanger. He presents it to Jack. “This is the one.”

“You gotta dress him at the changing table,” Jack informs him, dragging him by the sleeve to an available station. It’s about two feet too low for Dean to use comfortably, but that doesn’t seem to cross Jack’s mind.

“I’m going to see if they have a blaster,” Jack says, and then he’s gone.

Dean gets to work dressing his monkey, but it’s significantly harder than he ever would’ve expected. The head hole in the shirt barely fits over his monkey’s massive head, and it snaps off before Dean’s gotten it past the second ear more than once.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbles. Aren’t these things supposed to be designed for kids? Goddamn.

“Having trouble, old man?” Claire asks from where she’s suddenly appeared at his side.

“No,” Dean lies.

“Well, if you can’t get off the struggle bus with that one,” Claire says, “then I picked out some shirts you could go with instead.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asks, still mostly focused on his monkey’s shirt. Ha! Success! Take that, Build-A-Friggin-Bear. Hopefully the pants will be easier.

“Mhm,” Claire says. “I figured, you know, you’ve lost so many people over the years, you might want something to remind you of one.”

Well _that_ certainly gets Dean’s attention. When he looks at Claire, she’s got a wide-eyed pseudo-innocent expression on her face that Dean doesn’t trust for a _second._

“This one would be good every time you think about Crowley,” she says, handing him a grey t-shirt that reads _don’t text your ex_ in blue letters.

“Very funny,” Dean says, resolutely _not_ thinking about the fact that he’d been planning to send some pictures to Rowena at the end of the night.

“This one would be in honor of that guy Aaron,” Claire continues, presenting a bright blue shirt embellished with _Mazel Tov!_ “What did Sam say you called him? Your gay thing?”

Whatever witty response Dean had prepared gets sucked straight out of his brain at the mention of that phrase. He’s going to _kill_ Sammy for telling her about Aaron.

“And this one, of course,” she says, smiling slyly now, “would be for Benny.”

The last shirt she gives him is black, with the words _emotional support bear_ across the front. Dean stares at it for a minute, and then he stares at Claire, who shamelessly stares right back. It is absolutely a contest.

The thing is—Dean knows Claire gets thorny when she’s backed into a corner. She’s at her meanest when she feels her most vulnerable, and Dean knows it because he practically wrote the handbook on lashing out at your loved ones so that they don’t bring up the thing you’re sensitive about. Claire’s looking for a reaction, something to make her feel in control after that whirlwind of a conversation at the Fluff Me station, and Dean’s. Well. Dean’s not going to give it to her.

“Thank you,” he says in his most sincere tone. “These will be nice to have on hand whenever I get sick of Han Solo.”

Dean’s never going to get sick of Han Solo, but Claire sure as shit doesn’t need to know that. He watches as her mischievous grin falters minutely. Jack returns before either of them can say anything else.

“I found one!” he announces, waving the blaster between Dean and Claire to get their attention.

“Thanks, buddy,” Dean says, finally breaking eye contact with Claire to accept the blaster from Jack. He slides the tiny wrist strap up his monkey’s arm. “You wanna help me with this?”

Jack takes the monkey in hand and finishes dressing him far quicker than Dean ever could have dreamed.

“You done?” Dean asks Claire. She fidgets, biting her lip and looking anywhere but him, and then she nods.

“Claire’s not done,” Jack says. “We still have to fill out our birth certificates.”

“Of course,” Dean says, and he and Claire both know that’s not what Dean meant. “Let’s go get started.”

There are enough computers for almost everyone in their group to use their own, save for Sam and Eileen, who squeeze onto one chair together, Eileen balanced on Sam’s lap. Dean wolf-whistles as payback for earlier, and he counts it as a success when Sam gives him the bitchface in response.

Dean’s next to Cas, whose sea turtle is now sporting a gaudy angel costume made up of white mesh and silver décor. The wings stick out from under either side of the shell. Cas notices Dean side-eyeing it and makes a funny little facial expression—part eye roll, part _what can you do?_ , and part pure unadulterated fear.

“Claire picked it out,” Cas explains. “I was _not_ given a choice in the matter.”

There’s a halo held above the turtle’s head by a piece of wire. Dean flicks it. “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me.” 

After they’ve all had their birth certificates printed, Emily rejoins them and hands out paper party hats adorned with bear ears. They’re designed for children, so the string squeezes Dean’s own human ears from behind, and he’s literally counting down the seconds until he can rip the damn thing off. All eight of them gather in close, clutching their bears, while Emily takes a million pictures on Jody’s iPhone. Dean smiles nicely for the first few, and then all bets are off. He gives Sammy bunny ears in one, and he crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out in another. Dean wraps his hands around Cas’ throat, pretending to strangle him, and Cas retaliates by pressing a sloppy kiss to Dean’s temple—though, he misses the mark and pretty much _only_ gets Dean directly on the eyeball. Yuck! Dean can’t wait to see how _that_ one turns out.

The Build-A-Bear has a strict no-cake-or-present-unwrapping policy, so once everyone’s bears have been carefully enclosed in their little white house-shaped boxes, Dean corrals everybody and gets them moving back towards the car. Jody, Donna, and Claire break off in the parking lot, having apparently parked on the opposite end from the Impala. Dean opens the trunk, and it takes some maneuvering, but they manage to fit all five boxes inside alongside Jack’s presents.

“That was so much fun!” Jack exclaims as everyone buckles their seat belts.

Dean makes eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. “We’re not done yet,” he says, with a wink.

Dean pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road, driving straight for a few intersections before turning left. At a red light, his phone buzzes with a text from Donna, letting him know that there were no problems picking the cake up from the bakery. Dean smiles.

There’s a public park a ten-minute drive from the shopping mall, with picnic benches you don’t need to reserve ahead of time. They’re not the only ones there, a number of school children already climbing the jungle gym and screeching their way down the slide, with more cars pulling in behind the Impala. Cas and Eileen hurry over to claim one of the tables, spreading Jack’s presents to mark their territory. Sam and Jack follow at a more leisurely pace.

Dean grabs his bag full of plates, napkins, and soda out of the trunk and then triple-checks that all his Baby’s doors are locked. As he’s walking to the picnic benches, he sees Jody’s car pull in. He makes a detour, instead, so that he can help them carry the cake and their own presents for Jack. Donna passes the cardboard box to Dean through the rolled-down window, and then the four of them join Sam and Cas. Jack and Eileen, it seems, have entangled themselves in a who-can-swing-the-highest contest.

“You wanna get them back here?” Dean asks Claire as he sets the cake down on the table.

Claire approaches the swing set and says something that Dean can’t hear—whatever it is, it inspires Jack to quite literally _fling_ himself off the swing as it crests to its highest point above the ground. Jody and Donna scream as Jack hits the mulch and somersaults a few feet from the momentum. Dean’s just about to sprint across the playground when Jack stands up on shaky legs, giggling. He and Claire high-five with both hands and walk back to the picnic benches with arms around each other’s shoulders. Eileen, who had simply dragged her feet to stop swinging like a normal person, follows behind them.

Cas checks Jack’s elbows and knees for scrapes, while Dean glares at Claire in disbelief, his hands on his hips.

“What?” she says. “He’s a Nephilim. He’s _fine.”_

“Yeah,” Jack pipes in. “It didn’t even hurt!”

“Can we have cake now?” Eileen asks. “I’m starving.”

And, well. She’s not the only one. Dean drops the almost-argument for now and starts unpacking his bag. Jack sits at the center of one of the wooden benches, with Cas on one side and Claire on the other, patiently waiting for everything to be set up. Jody scoots the cake box in front of the birthday boy, and Sam passes soda around the table.

“Close your eyes,” Cas instructs Jack, who goes so far as to cover them with his fingers.

Dean lifts the top off the cake box, revealing the image-laden, rainbow monstrosity within. Jack’s going to love it. The bakery provided them with a large wax candle in the shape of a 4, and Sam sticks it in the cake, making sure not to ruin any of the pictures or letters, and then he uses his lighter to light it. Donna has Jody’s phone in hand, though Dean’s not sure if she’s taking photos or video.

“Alright, Jack,” Dean says. “Open up.”

Jack drops his hands down into his lap and gasps when he sees the cake.

“Archie?!” he says in excitement. “No way!”

To his left, Cas beams in pride. All at once, everyone sings the happy birthday song, and Dean honestly thinks this is the happiest Jack has ever looked in his whole life. At the end of the song, Jack squeezes his eyes shut and makes another wish—his third of the day—and blows out his candle. Everyone hoots and hollers and applauds loudly.

“You wanna make the first cut?” Dean asks Jack.

Jack takes the knife and slices it right down the middle of Archie’s face. He’s about to pull it back out when Claire stops him with a hand over his on the handle.

“Next birthday’s gotta take it out,” she says. She looks up at all of them and gets a bit shy. “That’s what me and my parents always did.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Who’s next?”

“Ope,” Donna says, “That might be me. June first.”

No one chimes in with an earlier date, so Donna leans forward and pulls the knife out of the cake. She passes it back to Dean, and he cuts pieces—starting with Jack’s. Cas passes around plastic forks, and they all devour two pieces each, or three, in Dean’s case. He leans back, rubbing at his stomach and groaning in both regret and ecstasy. He looks up and sees Jack doing the same thing.

“Too full for presents?” Cas asks Jack.

“No way,” he responds.

Cas laughs. “That’s good, because it looks like you’ve got a lot to open.”

They all toss their garbage into a bin nearby, and Dean puts the top back on the cake box so they can bring it home later.

“Alright, kiddo,” Dean says. “Which one first?”

Jack points to a medium-sized rectangular box, wrapped in colorful paper and a silver bow. The envelope taped to the top contains a card, and Jack reads the Hallmark message aloud, revealing the gift to be from both Jody and Donna. He tears the paper off, and Cas collects the scraps, shoving them into the duffel that had previously contained all the plates and plasticware. Jack lifts the top off the box and gasps happily at the Spider-Man comic books inside. There’s half a dozen of them in there, and Dean would protest the cost if he himself hadn’t spent just as much or more on his own gifts. Speaking of—

“Here you go, buddy,” Dean says, passing Jack the two boxes he’d wrapped in old newspaper.

Jack picks the heavier one first, and before he can even announce to the group what he’s opened, Cas plucks the bottle of Jack Daniels out of the packaging and declares, “Absolutely not.”

Dean splutters. “Come on!”

“He’s four, Dean.” And—oh boy, that’s his serious voice.

“Alright, alright,” Dean surrenders. “Open the next one.” Cas squints at Dean suspiciously. “It’s age appropriate, I swear.”

Jack’s slower to open Dean’s second gift, eyes darting between the two of them, like he’s not sure if he should be taking a side here. He doesn’t seem to know what he’s looking at once he opens the box, so Dean tells him to pull it out and unfold it. Everyone oohs-and-aahs when they see it’s a chef’s apron, with the words _chef-in-training_ emblazoned across the front.

“Does this mean I can make burgers now?” Jack asks.

“Uhhhh,” Dean hesitates, remembering the evening Jack offered to cook dinner and they all ended up tearing apart the bunker in search of a fire extinguisher. “If I’m helping, sure, why not?”

“Thanks, Dean!” Jack says, smiling, and Cas looks slightly less murderous now, too, thank god.

“Of course, kiddo. What next?”

“That one,” Jack says, and Dean hands him a brown paper giftbag, Jack’s name drawn in cool bubble letters on one side.

“That’s mine,” Claire says, and she rests her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, to watch Jack open it.

Jack sticks his hand inside and comes out with two bottles of nail polish: one black, the other hot pink so bright it almost hurts Dean’s eyes.

“That kind dries really fast,” Claire tells him. “So you don’t have to worry about accidentally smudging them.”

“Thanks, Claire!” Jack says. He sets the bottles carefully on the table in front of him and dives back into the bag, this time pulling out a blue sweatshirt that reads _Riverdale High School_ in yellow lettering. Jack holds it up to his body, and Dean gives it five minutes before the kid takes off his jacket and replaces it with his new sweatshirt.

“What size you get him, Claire?” Dean asks. “Looks a little short.”

“It’s cropped,” Claire and Jack answer at the same time, Claire informative and Jack excited.

Dean feels his eyes bug out of his head. “Cropped? Isn’t that… you know… for girls?”

“No,” Claire and Jack answer at the same time again. Well. Color Dean confused. 

Jack wraps Claire in a tight hug, thanking her again, and when he lets her go, she bashfully tucks her hair behind her ears. She’s got a proud look on her face, though, so Dean counts it as a win. The next set of gifts are from Sam, a big box and a small bag. Jack starts with the bag, taking a quick peek inside and then turning it upside down, so that a bunch of matchbox cars fall onto the table. Jack smiles and begins inspecting each one up close, pointing out details to Cas at his side.

Dean leans in close to Sam. “Aren’t those a little… young for him?” he whispers.

“I don’t know!” Sam answers, defensive. “I’ve never had kids before. The lady at the store said they were good for four-year-olds.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s not a normal four-year-old, though.”

“Well, if he doesn’t like them, we can return it.”

“I like them,” Jack declares. Shit. Did he hear them? Dean’s not sure. The kid’s always had a habit of announcing his likes and dislikes. Maybe that’s what’s happening.

Jack rips the paper off Sam’s other gift: one of those loop-de-loop tracks for matchbox cars.

“Cool!” Jack says, genuine, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks!”

“Do mine next,” Eileen suggests, and she identifies the biggest box and smallest bag. This time, Jack starts with the box. He has to stand up to unwrap it—it’s too heavy for his lap—and he gasps when the paper is torn enough to expose what’s inside.

“An Easy-Bake Oven?! No way!” he shouts.

Dean pulls some of the wrapping paper away from the side of the box, so he can read the information printed on it. It’s meant for kids eight-years-old or older, but apparently it cooks the food with a lightbulb, and Jack has better small motor skills than most, so Dean figures it’s safe enough for him to use. He’s not positive the food will be safe for them to eat, but at least Jack’ll have fun making it.

“Hey,” Sam says. “You can wear your new apron.”

“Wow,” Eileen says, leaning forward to talk to Dean. “You’d think we coordinated.”

Dean laughs. More like Jack is just super easy to please and loves anything Dean and Cas do. Either way, the kid is happy, so he can’t complain.

“Don’t forget the other one,” Claire says, pointing at the little bag covered in a confetti print. Jack snatches it up and opens it right away.

“What are pop rocks?” he asks, and every one of them but Cas starts laughing.

“You put them in your mouth,” Eileen explains, “and then they explode.” She mimes explosions with her hands. Jack looks a little freaked out at that.

“Not literally,” Claire says. “They just make a noise and feel kinda bubbly.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “That’s not so bad.”

“We can try them after presents,” Eileen says, and they all turn to see there’s only one bag left.

Cas speaks up. “I guess that just leaves me.”

He pushes his bag in front of Jack. It’s a pretty dark blue color, and Dean can’t see any tissue paper inside, which makes it easy for Jack to reach in and pull out a small stack of books. They’re the Smithsonian kind—real informational, and not enough pictures for Dean’s taste, but they’re right up Cas and Jack’s alley. Jack flips through them, reading the subjects aloud for the group: rocks and gems, space, Ancient Egypt, and dinosaurs. Jack gets caught up in the last one, checking out the table of contents and exploring the first few pages.

Cas nudges him. “There’s one more thing in there.”

Jack sets the books down on the table and dives back into the bag, re-emerging with what looks like a silver and black metal suitcase. Jack unlatches the closure and opens it, revealing a fancy art kit—one with a bunch of markers and crayons and colored pencils and paint. This one even has colored charcoal, which seems way too fancy for a kid, but who’s Dean to judge? Jack launches himself into Cas’ embrace, and they hold each other tight as Jack repeatedly thanks him and Cas repeatedly wishes him a happy, happy birthday.

Eileen tears open the bag of pop rocks and tells Jack to open his mouth and lean back a bit—Dean thinks it makes him look like a baby bird. She pours some onto his tongue, and they all laugh as Jack makes his way through a truly fantastic face journey, from hesitant to curious to taken aback to joyous. Eileen goes around the table, after, depositing pop rocks in the mouths of everyone else, finishing the last of the bag herself.

Once the pop rocks have popped their last pop, Cas throws away all the wrapping paper he’d accumulated in Dean’s duffel, and the other adults help Dean carry all of Jack’s presents back to the Impala, squeezing them into the trunk alongside the bear boxes. Claire and Jack hang out on the monkey bars—literally hang out upside down by their knees. Jack’s new sweatshirt doesn’t have elastic holding itself to his waist, so the fabric keeps falling down over his face, no matter how many times he pushes it away.

Trunk packed and picnic bench void of any sign they were ever there, Dean’s just about ready to get on the road. He sees Jody and Donna perch on either side of a seesaw and Eileen use the force of her whole body to push Sam on a swing, and he figures it wouldn’t hurt to play around until the sun sets. Dean slings an arm around Cas’ shoulder and goes to discover whether or not they can go down the twisty tube slide without getting stuck. (They can’t. Cas is in there for ten minutes before Claire and Jack are able to tug him by his feet the rest of the way down. He spends the whole time cursing at Dean in a hundred different languages, and Dean gets a belly cramp from laughing so hard. God. He’s going to spend the rest of his life with that guy, and he’s never looked forward to anything as much as he looks forward to this.)

When the sun crests over the horizon and the streetlamps flicker on, Dean decides it’s time to call it a night. They all stand by the cars, hugging goodbye and wishing Jack a happy birthday for the millionth time. Jody and Donna come at Dean from either side, squeezing him until he can’t breathe. Laughing, he shoves them away, rolling his eyes when Donna gives him a kiss on the cheek. He raises his eyebrows at Jody.

“I sure ain’t kissing you,” she says, so Dean is forced to retaliate with a cheek kiss of his own.

The two of them get in their car, and Claire approaches Dean, having already said goodbye to the others. He stares at her for a moment, both of them with their hands in their pockets and waiting for the other one to say something first.

Dean cracks. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says, placing a palm on her shoulder.

“Yeah, okay…” she says, not quite rolling her eyes, but he can tell she wants to.

“I’m serious,” Dean continues. “You know we got the room.”

“I know,” she says, more serious this time.

Dean nods, leaning against Baby as Claire gets into the backseat. She waves at him right before Jody backs out of the parking space, and Dean stays in place until they’ve driven so far down the road that he can’t see the car anymore. Everyone else is already buckled when Dean makes it around to the driver’s seat.

“Everyone ready?” Dean asks. He mostly gets vaguely positive sounding noises in return, except from Cas, who gives him a straightforward _yes._

The drive home to the bunker is peaceful. Dean lets Cas choose the music, and he finds a radio station playing acoustic covers of pop songs. Dean’s first instinct is to turn it off, but he hears Cas quietly humming along under his breath and decides to leave it alone. As they pass the border from Nebraska into Kansas, Dean glances in the rearview mirror and sees all three of them conked out—Eileen and Jack both with their heads resting on Sam’s shoulders. Dean smiles and pats Cas’ knee to get his attention. Cas takes a picture and taps on his phone a few times, probably sending it to Jody, Donna, and Claire. Maybe even Rowena. She’d like having an unflattering photo of Sammy, that’s for sure.

Dean pulls the Impala into the garage, and Cas leans over the seatback to wake Jack up. Jack lifts his head, jostling Sammy enough that he opens his eyes, too. Dean turns the engine off and takes out the keys, getting out of the car and unlocking the trunk. Everyone comes around to the back to grab something to carry inside, and they empty the trunk in one trip.

Dean takes the cake to the fridge right away, and when he comes out of the kitchen, he sees that most of Jack’s presents have been abandoned on the table in the library to be dealt with in the morning. Jack himself is making the rounds, hugging everyone goodnight. He barrels into Dean last, pressing the side of his face into Dean’s chest and wrapping his arms tightly around Dean’s middle.

“Goodnight, Dean,” he mumbles.

Dean cups the back of Jack’s head with his palm. “Goodnight, buddy.”

“Thanks for today,” Jack continues. “Best birthday ever.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Dean says.

Jack gives him one last squeeze, and then he pulls back. He shuffles down the hallway, looking like he might as well be already asleep and merely sleepwalking the rest of the way to his bed.

“We’re going to turn in, too,” Sam says, his arm around Eileen’s shoulders.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Eileen says with a wink.

Dean laughs and signs _right back atcha._ Once he and Cas are alone, he takes a shaky breath, the adrenaline from today finally leaving his body, and Cas pulls him into a warm embrace. Dean tucks his face into the crook of Cas’ neck and feels their chests move in tandem.

“Today was nice,” Cas says, as he lightly rubs Dean’s back.

Dean nods.

“You ready for bed?” Cas asks.

Dean nods again and lets himself be escorted to his bedroom. Inside, he strips down to his boxer briefs and flops facedown onto the mattress, his feet hanging off the end. He can hear Cas puttering around, searching for a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. The light flicks off, and Dean feels Cas swat at the back of his thighs. He takes that as an instruction to crawl under the covers properly, and so he does just that, rearranging himself a few times before he gets comfortable.

Facing Cas, Dean cuddles in close, so that their noses are practically brushing.

“Got something I wanted to ask you,” Dean whispers.

Cas hums and raises his eyebrows.

“Was thinking earlier,” Dean explains. “Kinda pointless for you to have all your stuff in another room when you just sleep here every night. Figured we could—you know. Make it official. Move in together. Whaddaya think?”

Cas smiles. “Think that sounds nice.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Cas confirms.

“Awesome.”

Dean leans in, and Cas meets him in the middle for a kiss, resting his palm on the side of Dean’s head, his thumb stroking Dean’s cheekbone. Dean pulls back after a moment or two, far too tired for anything further. Then he rolls over, Cas slinging an arm over his waist, fitting himself against Dean’s back.

“Love you,” Dean mumbles.

“Love you, too,” Cas answers, with a kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck.

The last thing Dean does before falling asleep is tangle their fingers together and tuck their joined hands up under his chin.

* * *

Dean stumbles out of his room in late-morning and narrowly avoids tripping over Jack’s matchbox car loop-de-loop that he has inexplicably set up right in front of the library entryway.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean calls to Jack, seated at the table with his brand-new art kit and a bunch of construction paper. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

“Sorry, Dean,” Jack says, not looking up from his drawing.

Dean stops by the kitchen to reheat some takeout leftovers, and when he passes back through the library, it doesn’t look like Jack has moved, but his toys are back in the box and out of the way. Dean thanks him and returns to his room. The smell of sweet and sour chicken rouses Cas from sleep, and they eat lunch in bed, criss-cross-applesauce atop the sheets.

Cas doesn’t have a whole lot of stuff, so Dean figures they can probably get him all moved into Dean’s room in an hour— _maybe_ two, in case they get distracted. They carry the hanging clothes over together, and then they crack open the dresser drawers. Apparently, no one ever taught Cas the normal human way to organize his room, so half of the dresser is full of random junk instead of actual clothes.

“Seriously?” Dean asks from his place on the floor, pulling out a rubber bouncy ball.

Cas frowns at him. “It’s a soothing color.”

He’s right—the orangey-pink reminds Dean of a sunset—but Dean’s not going to _admit_ that. “What do you need a bouncy ball for, Cas?”

Cas comes over and takes the ball from Dean, turning it over in his hand and contemplating it very seriously. Then, abruptly, he bounces it against the floor and catches it in his fist. “For that,” he says, like it should’ve been obvious.

Dean groans, throwing his head back against the mattress and directing his woes towards the ceiling. “You’re killing me, babe.”

The only answer Dean gets is the sound of the ball bouncing against the floor again. Dean sighs dramatically as he returns to his drawer, hoping for some attention, maybe a kiss or two, but Cas is already focused on his own task. Grumbling under his breath, Dean gathers the various burner phones and charging cords and carries them over to his room. He’s got a shoebox full of his own phones on top of the shelf in his closet, so he adds Cas’ to it, doing his best to keep them separate enough that they won’t confuse them in the future.

When he gets back, that drawer is empty, so Dean slides it back into the dresser and pulls out the next one. There are a couple of pairs of sweatpants haphazardly shoved inside, which Dean folds neatly and stacks on top of the bed. Seriously, he’s going to have to teach Cas a few things if this is really how he’s been living these past few months. Dean loves him, he does, but if Cas remains this chaotic and blasé about organization, then Dean’s not so sure this relationship is going to work out.

Under where the sweatpants had been, Dean discovers a black leather wallet. He pauses, glancing at the nightstand, where the wallet Dean picked up for Cas at the Lebanon General Store rests next to Cas’ phone and alarm clock.

“Huh,” Dean says, opening the unfamiliar wallet to see what’s inside. Jimmy Novak’s DMV photo stares at him from behind the flimsy plastic sleeve on the front flap.

“I didn’t know you kept this,” Dean says.

Cas looks up. “Kept what?”

“Jimmy’s wallet,” he clarifies. He holds it up for good measure. Cas sticks out a hand, and Dean obliges him.

“I forgot it was in there,” Cas says, running his thumb along the leather. He studies it for a minute or two before giving it back to Dean. “I guess there’s no reason to keep it. Since you got me my own IDs and cards.”

“I guess not,” Dean agrees, even though his stomach feels funny at the thought of throwing it away. “Wait a minute. Didn’t Claire lift this off you? Back when you first found her?”

Cas thinks about it. “Yes.”

“How’d you get it back?”

Cas doesn’t answer, and Dean knows him well enough to recognize when there’s something he doesn’t want to say—for fear it’ll make Dean angry, or sometimes sad. Dean’s not sure which one Cas thinks it’s going to be this time.

“Cas?” Dean probes, and he sees the moment Cas resigns himself to having whatever this conversation is going to turn out to be.

“At Randy’s house,” Cas says, “after, well. After. Sam thought it would be smart to wipe all our prints and make sure there weren’t any footprints. For when the police came. He found Jimmy’s wallet somewhere in the house.”

Fuck. Dean drags a hand across his mouth. It’s not that Dean doesn’t remember that night—he remembers more than he’d like to, frankly. It’s just not something he likes to think about often. And when he does… well, there are a few details that stand out. The horror in Sam’s eyes. The sticky texture of the blood coating his knife. The sound of Claire’s scream.

“He was right,” Dean says, voice hoarse. “That was smart.”

“Dean,” Cas says. “You know—”

Dean cuts him off. “Yeah, I know.”

And he does. The things he did when he had the Mark… He’s done his best to atone for them, and he’ll keep doing so until his time finally comes, and probably even after that, too.

He flips through the wallet flaps, cataloguing Jimmy’s debit card and library card and fro-yo loyalty punch card. He was only one punch away from a free medium serving. Dean’s about to toss the whole thing in the trashcan when something catches his eye: the corner of a thick piece of paper sticking out of one of the card slots. When Dean pulls it out, he uncovers a photo of Amelia Novak, a decade or so younger than she was when they first met her. She’s staring off into the distance, her blonde hair practically shining in the sunlight. Dean digs through the rest of the slots, and finds three more photographs: a professional portrait of Jimmy and Amelia, probably from their engagement shoot; Jimmy and Amelia perched on a hospital bed, Amelia cradling a newborn baby; and a school yearbook picture of Claire with her two front teeth missing. 

Dean doesn’t know how long he stares at the last one. Long enough for Cas to become worried and crawl over to Dean’s side and rest his chin on Dean’s shoulder. Dean stares and stares and stares, his brain practically whirring as he thinks about Claire without front teeth and Jimmy carrying photos of his wife and daughter everywhere and Cas unintentionally doing the same thing and Claire looking up at Dean in the middle of a Build-A-Bear in Omaha, Nebraska with tears in her eyes.

“I have to go do something,” Dean announces.

“Okay,” Cas says. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, I gotta do this myself.”

“Okay,” Cas repeats.

“You gunna be good to finish up here alone?”

“I’ll probably just go watch Riverdale with Jack instead,” Cas says, completely honest.

Dean barks out a laugh and turns his head. He cups Cas’ cheek in his hand and leans in for a kiss. This friggin’ guy…

Cas indulges Dean for a few more kisses, before he pulls back and asks, “Don’t you have to go do something?” 

“Yeah,” Dean answers. He punctuates it with another kiss. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

Dean stops by his room on the way out to grab his own wallet, phone, and Baby’s keys. He passes the Dean Cave and pokes his head in real quick to make sure Jack hasn’t secretly turned on Riverdale without parental supervision. (He hasn’t.) Then he heads into the garage and drives into town.

Dean parallel parks on Main Street and walks a block until he reaches the copy shop. A bell jingles above him when he opens the door, and he greets Phil standing behind the counter. There’s a self-service machine along one of the walls. Dean approaches it and plugs his phone into the attached cord. The screen comes to life, and he selects the images and sizes he wants, plucking them out of the opening after only a few minutes of waiting. Phil rings him up, and Dean pays in cash—tells him to keep the change.

There’s a secondhand store a few shops down, and Dean passes all the clothing racks and goes straight back to the home section. Most of the stuff on the shelves is junk: VHS tapes trapped inside cracked plastic cases; ugly, busted, mismatched table lamps; and ancient crockpots that are probably about eighty-five-percent likely to start a housefire as soon as they’re plugged in. On one of the last shelves Dean checks over, there’s a large plastic bin full of photo albums. A significant number of them are themed—wedding album, newborn baby album, travel album—but a few at the bottom are plain enough for what Dean’s planning. The highest quality one features a blue and white gingham cloth cover, with probably a hundred or so sheets inside, each fitting four photos on both the front and the back. Score.

Dean stands up from where he’d been kneeling on the floor and finds himself face-to-face with the figurine and trinket shelf. A small, off-white, ceramic angel catches his eye, and he snags it, thinking of Cas. The wings are decorated with sparkly gold paint, and the texture is smooth when Dean runs his thumb over it.

There’s a bored looking teenager at the register, and Dean pays in cash again. The sun is starting to set when he makes it back to Baby, and he decides to pick up pizza on his way home. He texts Cas an ETA while he’s waiting, and when he pulls into the garage twenty minutes later, Jack is waiting patiently for him, sat atop the hood of one of the other vintage cars.

“Hi, Dean,” he says, smiling brightly.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean replies. “You wanna bring these in for me?”

“Yes!” Jack exclaims. Dean helps him balance all three boxes in his arms and holds the door open as Jack passes through. Jack turns left down the hallway, and Dean goes right towards his room. Inside, he slips the plastic shopping bag off his arm and stows it beneath his bed for later. He notices his Han Solo monkey and Cas’ angelic sea turtle placed atop the pillows at the head of the bed—Cas must’ve taken them out of the boxes while Dean was gone. He smiles, pressing his monkey’s hand to hear that familiar _Hello, Dean_. Then, he heads back out to the kitchen, where everyone else has already dug in.

“Did you get what you needed?” Cas asks as Dean pulls a chair out and plops down.

He nods and piles three slices of pepperoni on his plate.

“What did you get?” Sam asks.

“Nothing,” Dean says, and then he amends his answer: “Just something for Claire.”

“Guess what happened on Riverdale this episode, Dean!” Jack says.

Cas leans in close. “You’ll never guess.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and looks back-and-forth between the two of them. “Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?”

“Five dollars you’re wrong,” Jack says.

“You want in on this, angel?” Dean asks.

“Actually,” Cas says, his mouth turning up at the corners in a mischievous grin. “I think I’ll bet ten.”

“What the hell,” Sam chimes in. “Put me down for fifteen. There’s no way you get this right, dude.”

“Eileen?” Dean asks, and he whistles in surprise when she answers _twenty._ “Alright… This week on Riverdale… Cheryl started practicing witchcraft, and she cast a love spell on the whole school, and everyone made out with someone they weren’t dating, and all the couples spent the rest of the episode arguing about it.”

Dean takes a massive bite of pizza and promptly chokes when Jack straightforwardly informs him that this week on Riverdale, it was revealed that “Cheryl’s been keeping the dead body of her twin brother Jason in her basement, and she showed him to Toni, and he’s got a creepy doll in his lap, too.”

Everybody but Jack bursts into laughter at Dean being wrong and also choking to death. They’re terrible people, the lot of them.

“Pay up,” Sam manages to get out between two of his stupid guffaws.

Dean groans and takes his wallet out of his back pocket, counting bills and tossing them in the middle of the table for the annoying vultures to snatch at their own leisure. He finishes his slices of pizza and gets up to toss his paper plate in the garbage.

“Seriously?” Sam asks. “Are you _that_ mad you lost a bet?”

“Screw you,” Dean hisses. “I got shit to do.”

And he does. He walks into his bedroom, shutting the door behind himself and retrieving the plastic shopping bag from beneath his bed. He sets it on top of his desk, pushing some of his other papers and folders to the side so he has room to work. First, he takes out the photo album. There’s a small window on the front that reveals the first page, made of a thicker paper than all the rest. Dean plucks a black sharpie out of his pencil cup and writes _C-L-A-I-R-E_ in the neatest handwriting he can manage. Next, he pulls out the envelope Phil had given him to store his printed photographs in safely, and he slides the photos onto the desk. He’s still got Jimmy’s wallet in his other jeans pocket, so he fetches the photos from inside and adds them to his collection.

Since each photo album page can fit four photos, Dean starts with the ones from Jimmy’s wallet. Besides, aren’t photo albums supposed to go in chronological order? Dean’s never had one, but that seems like the smartest way to organize them.

After that, it’s time for all the pictures from Jack’s birthday. Jody and Donna had taken way more than Dean had expected—saving them to his camera roll from the messages app took, like, at least ten minutes. The collection includes: a group photo with all their bears where everyone still had a nice smile on their face; a handful of group photos where they’d all descended into chaos; a candid of Claire and Jack dressing their bears side-by-side; Claire and Eileen smiling nicely for the camera; a candid of Claire and Dean at the fluffing station, taken from behind; Claire, Jack, and Cas squeezing in close in front of the cake; Jack, his mouth full of pop rocks and his eyes wide in apprehension, and Claire, laughing obnoxiously at him; Claire and Jack upside down on the monkey bars, making silly monkey faces; and a blurry selfie of the whole group that Sam had taken with his freakishly long arms. Dean fills up the next couple of pages and leaves the rest for Claire.

He's debating whether or not to label the pictures with a date and description when he hears the bedroom door open. Soft footsteps grow closer, and then Cas is wrapping his arms around Dean from behind. Dean leans into the touch, resting his head against Cas’ bicep. He turns the pages slowly so Cas can see all the pictures, ending on the first ones of Jimmy, Amelia, and Claire. Cas doesn’t say anything, but he does press a kiss to Dean’s skull, where the bone juts out a bit behind his ear.

“In the mood for movie night?” Cas asks eventually.

Dean considers it. There’s still stuff to move from Cas’ room into Dean’s, but it’s not like they have anything else to do tomorrow. “Yeah,” he decides. “This thing’s pretty much done. It Eileen’s turn?”

“Sam’s.”

“Ugh, never mind.”

Cas chuckles lowly, and Dean feels the sound more than he hears it.

“Got you something,” Dean says, turning his head so he can see Cas’ face. Cas likes gifts—likes _stuff_ , likes accumulating things of his own—and lucky for him, Dean loves giving them. He reaches blindly into the shopping bag, wrapping his fist around the ceramic angel and pulling it out. Holding his fist in Cas’ line of sight, he slowly uncurls his fingers and watches Cas’ reaction. His eyes light up, and a brilliant smile spreads its way across his face, almost blinding. Cas lets go of Dean, delicately plucking the angel from his hand and cradling it in his own. He looks over to the ledge above Dean’s— _their_ —bed, presumably deciding where it should live.

Cas crosses the room and climbs atop the bed, walking on it precariously, his feet sinking deep into the memory foam with every step. His collection of trinkets was the first thing they brought over, and Cas stood on the bed for twenty minutes arranging them to his satisfaction. Now, he sets the angel down between a figurine of a dog made of cabbage (another thrift store find) and a tiny, navy blue and turquoise pinch-pot Jack made for Cas during a ceramics workshop at the Lebanon community center.

Cas makes his way back to the foot of the bed, and Dean stands up to meet him there. Dean usually doesn’t have to look up at Cas, and he’s gotta admit, he’s kinda into it. Cas leans down, taking Dean’s face in both hands and giving him a kiss.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, his voice taking on that tone that always makes Dean feel like maybe Cas is saying thank you for more than just a two-buck ceramic thrift store angel.

Dean holds his hand for balance as he steps down onto the floor, and they don’t untangle their fingers until they’re in the kitchen and Dean accidentally burns his tongue trying to tear open the hot bag of freshly-popped popcorn with his teeth.

Walking into the Dean Cave, Dean takes note of the DVD title screen on the TV and throws a handful of popcorn kernels at the back of Sam’s head, where he’s bent over trying to set up subtitles.

“Titanic, again? _Really?”_ Dean asks.

Sam scoffs and rolls his eyes so hard his upper body goes along for the ride. “Don’t even try to pretend you didn’t sneak into three separate theatres to see it when it came out.”

“Hey!” Dean argues. “I snuck in for James Bond.”

“Yeah.” Another eyeroll. “Sure.”

Dean’s not sure what he’s about to say next, but it’s going to be _something_ , because there’s no way in hell he’s letting Sammy have the last word, when Cas not-so-kindly tells them both to “Shut the fuck up—the movie’s starting.”

Grumbling, Dean does as he’s told and settles as comfortably as he can in one of the recliners with Cas. Sammy and Eileen are in the other one, with Jack stretched out on his stomach on the floor, using his hot pink sloth to prop his chin up. Huh. Maybe they should start keeping an eye out for more furniture in second-hand stores and left on the side of the road.

They make it through all of Titanic without having to pause it for a bathroom break—which is impressive, considering their track record. None of them manage to get to Jack in time to cover his eyes when Kate Winslet takes her top off, though, and no matter what Sam says, Dean absolutely does _not_ cry when the old couple hold each other close as the water floods their third-class room.

The next morning—well, afternoon, really—Dean and Cas officially finish moving Cas into Dean’s bedroom. The place is more cluttered than Dean would normally like, but he’d feel bad asking Cas to weed out some of the collectibles he loves so much. Not to mention the plants—Dean had brought up the idea of getting rid of some of the worse-for-wear ones _one time_ , and Cas had refused to speak to him for a day and a half. Loneliest day and a half of his life, and Dean had spent most of his childhood watching over his napping baby brother and wishing his dad was home. So. No way in hell he’s doing _that_ again. Instead, he locks the door and pulls Cas down on top of him on their bed, with no plans to resurface until at least dinner time—and maybe not even then.

* * *

Claire stops by a few weeks later, on her way back to Sioux Falls after a hunt in Dumas, Texas and in need of somewhere to crash. She says over the phone that the bunker’s cheaper than a motel and has comfier beds, too, and Dean knows how to read between the lines.

It’s late when she gets in, a few hours after Sam, Eileen, and Jack have all turned in for the night. The first thing she does is make fun of his hot dog pants. After Dean locks the door behind her, she follows him down to the Dean Cave, where Cas is waiting with the movie paused.

“You eat any of my popcorn?” Dean asks as he passes through the doorway.

“Nope,” Cas lies, even though he’s licking his fingertips clean of salt and butter as he says it.

Dean settles back onto the couch, pressing the entire length of their sides together and leaning his weight heavily into Cas. They’d been sprawled across the whole thing horizontally before Claire texted, Dean on top with Cas’ hands running absentmindedly up and down his spine, but Dean figured that, as comfortable as Claire had gotten with them lately, that might’ve been a bit much.

Claire hovers near one of the armchairs, her bag still slung over her shoulder. “Couch is new,” she says.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, “got it at the flea market when Eileen moved in last month.”

“We’re watching Constantine,” Cas tells her, the invitation clear in his voice.

“It’s got Rachel Weisz,” Dean adds, mouth full of popcorn.

Claire doesn’t say anything, and when Dean looks, she’s got a blank face of confusion.

“She’s hot,” he explains. “You’ll like her.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but she finally drops her bag on the floor and flops into the armchair. It’s not zipped all the way, and Dean’s, like, ninety percent sure he can see her Build-A-Bear skunk tucked in alongside her clothes and her shotgun.

“So, what’s this movie about?” she asks.

“Cas’ family,” Dean answers. “Kinda.”

“We can rewind it,” Cas offers. “We just started.”

“Yeah, okay,” Claire says, like she doesn’t really care either way.

By the time the credits roll, Dean’s not sure if he’s just seen the best movie ever made or the worst. It was kind of horrible, but also Constantine is, like, the coolest dude in the world, but also Gabriel—seriously, _Gabriel_ —being Tilda Swinton and Balthazar being a demon was absolutely batshit insane. Dean’s brain hurts if he thinks about it all too hard. It was entertaining, at least.

Cas rubs at his eyes and lets out a big yawn. Dean nudges at him with an elbow.

“Hey, go to bed,” he whispers. “Be there soon.”

Cas nods, half-asleep already, and wishes Claire goodnight on his way out of the room. Dean stands up and treks over to the bar, pulling two bottles of beer out of the fridge. He opens them both against the counter and gives one to Claire before collapsing in the second armchair. He pulls the lever to recline back and lets out a relaxed sigh. After a moment, Claire does the same. They drink in silence for ten, fifteen minutes, maybe—Dean’s not positive—until Claire kicks the recliner back into its upright position and scoops the strap of her duffel bag up off the floor.

“Same room as last time?” she asks, as if Dean would’ve moved her spare clothes and favorite throw blanket out of there in the interim.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and then, “Wait, hold on.”

Claire pauses in the middle of the room. Dean stands up and goes to the bookshelf, grabbing the photo album from the shelf he’d set it on earlier in the evening in anticipation for her visit. 

“Here,” he says, handing it over. She takes it slowly, cautiously, and Dean watches her face closely as she opens it up and processes what she’s looking at. Her eyes flit from photograph to photograph rapidly, before moving one by one like molasses, drinking every last detail in like maybe Dean’s going to take the album away once she’s done.

“Where did you…”

“In your dad’s wallet,” he says, and she looks up at him sharply, eyes wet. She swallows thickly, and Dean finds himself doing the same, more emotional than he had expected.

“There’s, uh,” Dean says, “Turn the page.”

Claire does, and she lets out a quiet laugh when she sees the next photos. Her gaze is less heavy as she explores the third and fourth pages, which isn’t too much of a surprise, but it makes Dean feel more like he’s done something right with this. Eventually, she closes the album and sets it down gently on the armchair. Then she springs forward for a hug, standing on her tip toes so she can wrap her arms around Dean’s neck.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Of course,” he responds. They hold onto each other for a few seconds more before Dean rubs his hand across the space between her shoulder blades. “Come on, you should get to bed. You had a long drive.”

Claire pulls away, and Dean pretends not to notice her wiping away some tears. She holds the album tightly against her chest as she leaves the room, and Dean stands in place for a while after he’s watched her go. Then, he grabs the empty beer bottles and popcorn bowl, carrying them to the kitchen. He flips the bowl over the trashcan, discarding all the un-popped kernels, and rinses the beer bottles out, leaving them upside down in the dish rack. Sam’ll toss them into the recycling bin in the morning.

When Dean opens the door to his room, the sliver of light from the hallway illuminates Cas on his back in bed, limbs spread wide and face slack with sleep. He doesn’t stir as Dean hangs up his dead guy robe or turns on the fan in the corner or even as he climbs onto the mattress. All he does is sniffle and twitch his fingers. Dean lays down close, resting his cheek on Cas’ sternum and hooking a leg between Cas’ own.

It’s probably not even a minute before Dean’s out, too.

* * *

When Dean wakes up in the morning, it’s from a bright light shining directly on his face. He groans, covering his eyes with his hand and spreading his fingers just enough that he can squint one eye open and see what the hell is going on. The light is coming from the hallway, and Jack’s in the doorway, one hand still wrapped around the knob.

“Dean,” he asks, “are you awake?”

Dean lets out a deep breath. “I am now, buddy.”

“I messed up.”

“What?” Dean asks, sitting up in concern, while also doing his best not to jostle Cas.

“In the kitchen.”

Dean slides his feet into his slippers and stands up, grabbing his dead guy robe off the hook on the wall. He shrugs it on and maneuvers Jack out of the doorway.

“Come on,” he says. “Close the door. Don’t wake your dad up.”

Jack pulls the door shut, turning the knob at the last second so it doesn’t click. He shuffles his feet, twisting his fingers nervously around the waist-tie of his _chef-in-training_ apron. 

“I tried to make breakfast,” Jack explains. “But something went wrong.”

Dean rests a hand on Jack’s shoulder, pressing his thumb into the kid’s collarbone to ground him.

“Let’s go check it out, yeah?” he says, turning Jack in the direction of the kitchen. “It’s probably not that bad.”

Dean can smell something burnt before they even reach the kitchen, and the room is a little smoky when they do. Jeez, maybe it _is_ that bad.

“First things first,” Dean explains. “We gotta turn the fan on.”

He walks over to the stove, flicking the switch on the hood. Jack breathes out a quiet _oh_ in realization. On top of the cooktop is a pan of what were apparently supposed to be cinnamon rolls but are instead eight balls of completely charred dough.

“These the ones from the fridge?” Dean asks.

Jack nods.

“You got your heart set on cinnamon rolls?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, quiet and bashful, the syllable drawn out.

“Okay,” Dean says, nodding to himself. He sticks a hand in an oven mitt and throws the charred cinnamon rolls in the garbage, pan and all, and then he pulls out his phone to do some googling. He searches for a cinnamon roll recipe that’ll get the kid fed in under an hour, and it takes some scrolling, but he manages to find one that seems doable—they’ll have to simplify it, but they’ve got the basic ingredients, at least.

Jack helps Dean gather the flour, sugar, yeast, milk, butter, and eggs, lining them all up on the counter, and Dean procures a big metal mixing bowl and some measuring cups. Jack cracks the eggs a little too hard, and they have to go fishing for pieces of shell, but otherwise the dough-mixing goes okay. Dean spreads a hefty amount of flour on the counter and pulls a rolling pin out of a drawer.

“This is so the dough doesn’t stick,” he explains, smearing flour along the length of the rolling pin, too. “It starts sticking, you just add more flour.”

Dean presses the pin into the heap of dough, pushing down lightly and experimenting with a couple quick, short rolls. Then, he hands it over to Jack. “You try.”

Jack copies Dean’s motions, but the pin just ghosts across the surface of the dough, hardly rolling it out at all.

“Little more pressure,” Dean instructs.

Jack pushes down harder and is far more successful the second time.

“There you go,” Dean says, proud. Jack smiles brightly at him before focusing very intently on his task. He rolls the dough out meticulously, and Dean takes over at the end to make sure it doesn’t wind up too thin to roll into a log.

“You wanna make the filling?” Dean asks. Jack hesitates. “Come on, you got this. Just butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar. Can’t mess it up.”

Jack measures the ingredients three times each just to be safe and stirs the mixture in the bowl carefully, so nothing splashes over the sides.

“Lady in the recipe video had a fancy brush,” Dean says, pouring the filling onto the dough. “But our fingers should work just fine.”

He and Jack fingerpaint the filling across the dough until it’s even, and then they lick the excess off, humming in pleasure the whole time. Dean’s not a _total_ animal, so he makes sure they both wash their hands before touching the dough again. He rolls the dough himself since Jack’s never done it before—he can watch now and practice next time.

Claire drags herself into the kitchen, barely lifting her feet as she walks. Her hair’s a mess, and her eyes are still half shut. “What are you doing?”

“Baking cinnamon rolls!” Jack answers.

“Sweet,” Claire says, dropping onto a chair and folding her arms on the table, shoving her face into the crook of her elbow.

Handing Jack a knife, Dean instructs him to cut the log into twelve small pieces. They wind up a little uneven, but not so much so that they’ll bake funny. Jack places them one-by-one into a new pan.

“What now?” Jack asks.

“Stick ‘em in the oven for twenty minutes to rise,” Dean explains. “Normally you do it outside the oven for an hour. I don’t know about you, but I’m too hungry for that.”

“Me, too,” Jack agrees. Perfectly timed, his stomach grumbles loudly, and Dean laughs.

While the cinnamon rolls prove, Dean and Jack clean up the kitchen—wiping the counter down with a wet rag, washing the dishes in the sink, and leaving them in the drying rack to drip-dry. Dean sneaks a peek at the rolls, and they seem risen enough, despite it not having been twenty whole minutes, so he cranks up the oven temperature and sets a fifteen-minute timer.

“Ready for the icing?” Dean asks. Jack nods. “Wanna do it yourself?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “The filling wasn’t as hard as I thought.”

Dean smiles and leans against the counter, watching Jack combine the powdered sugar, vanilla, and milk—already far more confident in his movements than before. Dean swipes a finger through the icing for a taste-test. “More vanilla.” Jack pours a few more drops, and Dean tastes it again. “Perfect.”

The timer beeps, and Dean takes the pan out of the oven, setting it on the stove to cool for five or so minutes.

“You wanna go wake your dad up?” Dean asks. “Sam and Eileen, too?”

Jack rushes off, bumping into Cas in the doorway. He wishes Cas good morning—receiving only a grunt in return—and then speeds down the hallway towards Sammy’s room. For a moment, Dean hopes Jack doesn’t accidentally walk in on anything inappropriate, but he’s not worried enough to go burst through Sammy’s door himself. Instead, he focuses his attention on Cas. His pajama pants are dragging beneath his feet as he slides across the floor, and he has one of Dean’s hoodies zipped most of the way up over his bare chest. He collapses inelegantly in a chair next to Claire.

“Morning, grumpy,” Dean greets him, with a cheeky smile. Oh, if looks could kill… Though, even as Cas glares at him, he tilts his head backwards so that Dean can give him an upside-down kiss.

“Gross,” Claire declares, and when Dean pulls away, he sees she hasn’t even lifted her head.

“ _You’re_ gross,” he mumbles under his breath, twisting his face into something mocking.

“Your face’ll get stuck like that,” she says, still not looking at him, seriously, _how_ does she do that?!

They’re saved from devolving into even more immature forms of teasing by Sam, Eileen, and Jack entering the kitchen. Sam and Eileen are nowhere near as cranky as Cas and Claire—in fact, they seem to have already showered and changed out of pajamas and into normal clothes. They sit at the table, too, across from one another so they can continue whatever conversation they were already having in sign language.

“Hey!” Dean says, snapping to get Jack’s attention. “You gunna help me ice these or what?”

Jack bounds over to his side, happily taking the knife from Dean and sticking it into the bowl of icing. Dean grabs a second knife for himself, and together they sloppily spread the entire bowl atop the cinnamon rolls, still in the pan.

Dean feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he glances up to find Cas staring at him from the other side of the kitchen. He’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the two of them, and Dean finds himself reciprocating with a smile of his own. For a second, it’s like they’re the only people in the room—at least, until Jack excitedly announces that the cinnamon rolls are all iced up and ready to eat.

Jack passes out plates while Dean carries the pan over to the table—hands bare, which he regrets about ten seconds in. He drops the pan onto the tabletop, sucking the side of one finger and shaking the burn out of the ones on his other hand. He’ll have to run them under some cold water later. For now—man’s gotta eat.

The cinnamon rolls are good—a little chewy, but the icing is the perfect amount of melty, and the cinnamon flavor explodes over Dean’s tongue with every bite. They’re way better than the pre-made refrigerated kind, that’s for sure. Everyone else seems to agree, too. Sam and Eileen give their compliments to the chef—Jack, not Dean, obviously—and Dean can even see Claire attempting to hide a smile. Jack’s got icing on the tip of his nose, and Dean watches as Cas leans forward to wipe it off gently with a paper towel he’s dunked in Jack’s glass of water. The action is tender. Paternal. Human.

Dean abruptly becomes aware of a lump in his throat and a prickle behind his eyes. He looks away, only to catch Sam and Eileen making stupid faces at each other and Claire side-eyeing him like he’s gone completely off the deep end.

“You good, old man?” she asks, somehow managing to even _chew_ judgmentally.

“Yeah,” he answers, clearing his throat. And he is. Has been for a while, actually. He’s got his baby brother, safe and happy and stupidly in love with one of the coolest chicks Dean’s ever met. And he’s got his angel—the love of his fucking life, really—and their two kids, one they found and one they raised. He’s got a family—one that he built, one that no one’s going to take away from him, not heaven or hell or even God himself. “I’m good. I’m really, really good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!!
> 
> P.S. [Here](https://64.media.tumblr.com/248b99867e581c2e48363c45959d7cbc/73fc098c81be6ba3-4e/s1280x1920/91e44aa34a8c07d0a357325e4a14e208b2166906.png) are all the bears everyone chose and the outfits they picked, too! (Everything but the Han Solo and Don't Text Your Ex ones should be currently available on the Build-A-Bear website LOL).


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